In some part of himself he can feel the awareness of this child, rocking itself gently side by side upon the blanket.

Chapter Fifteen  Sacrifice

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S

quire is in a gust of good humour. Conny has been to see the girls and she says they’re not talkative, but Emily does seem to have recovered. Two breakfasts of eggs and fried potatoes were sent up and both plates came back empty.

The Squire as he steps from the stable thinks it must
be women’s problems, excitement of the wedding.
Some kind of brouhaha, they are very close. “Ready for
a walk, boy!” Skyler bounds down the path.

Another reason to think all is right with the world is a
new leather attachment for his saddle, fitted and stitched,
all done. The new holder for his walking stick will also
carry his Mauser so he can go walking and shooting out on
the moors without having to carry the damn things on his
back.

It’s the rehearsal this afternoon so they have to be in
Weatherby by five. There’s lunch and he’s thinking of a
ride on Hasty to get away from all the bustle. Edith is
putting on a fancy meal for those staying at Mandalmane.
They set the dinner for 30 minutes after eight to give the
rehearsal party time to get back. A quick bath and change
before Weatherby. Have to remind Horace.

The Squire deep in concentration hasn’t paid attention
to the woman standing on the stone bridge. “Magistrate,
good morning. I noticed you approaching.”

“Good morning.” The Squire raises his stick as a salute.

The lady in her early thirties looks somewhat familiar but
he cannot place... Hope! Hope Tempest!”

She wasn’t someone who he would have picked to see this
morning and a nervousness settles over him. “I haven’t seen
you, I don’t remember how long. How is your father and
mother?”

“Father’s well enough, thank you. We had to find a
new man for the business. The old manager obtained a new position in Biddiford. More money that we couldn’t match. The new fellow seems to be doing well. Mother still has to be looked after. Father stays with her. She takes on a great agitation if left alone.”

The Squire looks serious. “I am sorry to hear that. Out for a walk? Wonderful day! We don’t get many on this worn
old path any more.”

“It was her stay in Exeter that did it. The Bedlamite
asylum, where you sent her. She wakes up in the night
screaming. She cannot seem to get over it.”

The young woman steps up to the Squire. “My father
and me, we cannot seem to get over it.”

“It was the letter, Hope! I had to do what I did because
of the letter. Someone had to have taken the key. It was never found. Not even in melted condition. Your mother would have been charged for the crime of wilfully setting fire to the house. She could have been hung for the murder of three people.”

“We had some news recently about the fire,” Hope steps
back, looks over at the water. “Unexpected news. Reason
I’m here magistrate. Not to have a walk. But I heard you
went this way most mornings when not doing in Biddiford. I thought with the wedding tomorrow you might be out
today.”

“You have some information about the fire.”

“Yes! About the fire! Quite the revelation it was. I
always knew mother never did any arson. She and Rachel
were best friends. Why would she set fire to her best friend’s
home? Nothing made sense. Father knew it too. But this
explained things. A man had seen what happened. He
came and told us about it.”

“A man! What man! Why didn’t he come forward!”

“He was a convict. Escaped, he had been hiding out. Come over moors to take ship. He stopped by the stream
late evening for a rest. Ezekiel had seen him, given him
food. He decided to sleep in the trees that night. He’d been asleep in the trees that run along the back of the stream
when he heard some strange noises. They weren’t loud, he
said, but they were praying using strange words. He was
frightened because it was so strange.”

“Who! Who are you talking about, Hope?”

“Three of them, the man said. Two men and a woman.
As he watched they picked up a post of some sort left at
the back of the house. They also brought faggots from the
back. Then they went inside the house. I asked if the door
was locked. He said he thinks they broke the small window
by the door. He couldn’t see. He wasn’t going to get too close. They lit the faggots before they went inside, he said.
Suddenly the whole house was aflame.”

The Squire’s face has blanched.

“The man said he’d never seen anything burn like that
house. It was supernatural, he said. He ran away. He said
he could have kept running all the way to other side of
moors if his body would have allowed it.”

“Could I speak to this man?”

Hope gives him a peculiar expression. “I asked him to come tell what he knows to you. He says he’s not pardoned and he’s not going to speak to any magistrate.”

“You believe the man, Hope?”

“There was no reason for him to come speaking to us,
Magistrate. It’s been on his mind all this time, he said.
He’d been asking about us and had to come and see us.
He heard a woman, a bonny-sized woman in her prime, by
the name of Tempest, had been put away for the moors
fire. There were only three of them out there that night, he
said: an older man, a younger man, a lean young woman
with little on her. I looked to his eyes, Magistrate.
My mother remained in that asylum for five years before
father managed to get her out. They say truth will come
to light, Magistrate.”

“Why would three people burn down Ezekiel Keys house,
Hope?”

“You know this isn’t any lie, don’t you, Magistrate. You
don’t want to hear truth because it would make you wrong,
and wronged us.”

“I suggested under the circumstances of your mother’s blackouts and her madness your mother plead not guilty.
The solicitor agreed. Legally it was the avenue we both
thought best to take. Abby would have been tried both for
arson and murder.”

“If you thought she was guilty, you should have tried
her, magistrate!”

“A court case would have caused your mother to suffer
dearly.”

“She might have been found innocent, Magistrate. Isn’t
that what your laws and your trials are for, to find who is
what? Not that I’m saying you and your lot do a good
job of it, because I know you do not. Your lot is interested in the rich, preserving them, Magistrate. Keeping them
who has, having it. Mother most times now acts normal,
but she can’t bear to be alone. Then there are the nights
she screams.”

“I am sorry, my dear. I am most sorry. If I told you I
was young. If I told you...”

“Sorry won’t bring back my mother’s life, Magistrate,
nor my father’s, nor mine if it comes to it. I was only eight
when you took my mother away, Magistrate Bexfield. I had
no childhood after that. I was the child of a mad woman.
We have paid the penalty for your judgement!”

“I wish I could speak with the man, Hope. At least it
would clear your mother in the...”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Magistrate.”
With that Hope passes him on the bridge, strolls off down
the side lane that takes her out to the highway.

Harrow woods, little more than a copse, is ten minutes
away. Following the path upwards, the ground underfoot is
spongy with rain that came during the night. The Squire,
as a reflex, waves his stick in front of him as he walks, for
the thoughts are heavy.

He wishes he could wave the thoughts away. He knows
his position of Magistrate... But what can he do... It is all done. He is done. Constance was right about him leaving. He knows that now. Twenty years too late! Beginning to
feel the journey ever more tiring, he whistles for the dog,
who way ahead has nearly reached the trees.

. . .

Miss Hooper has been brought to Farmer Hopkins’ large
fields following the trail of her small detective. She debates going further. Packed soil at the side of the field she can walk upon but, it will make Shapanzi and herself very dusty.

Shapanzi examining a mole eruption, she calls to him. “Shapanzi, dear. I must remind you, Gentlemen dogs do
not smell moles, nor their holes.”

The sun inflexible in its fierceness she needs to take
some shade. In a gathering of elderly oak, one oak has a
thick, well-positioned branch in a low curvature, perfect for
seating. Miss Hooper tries the low branch to see if it moves.

It does not. Behind her a second curving to rest her back.
Shapanzi on her lap, the cool shade and quietness cause them both to doze. Miss Hooper wakes to see the lady from Australia, Miss Ackrim walking towards them. Seeing them the lady turns begins to move away.

“Miss Ackrim,” Miss Hooper calls. “This bough is big enough for two.”

“I’m sorry, Madam. I hadn’t expected anyone to be here.”

“Please call me Gladys. We’re both adventurers. You
have been to this shelter before?”

“Yes, Madam... Gladys, I discovered this sanctuary, this shelter, some days past.” The young woman places to her eyes a handkerchief.

“Something is wrong. We are all Christians here,” Miss
Hooper exclaims.

“Does this have something to do with Keys family, Bella?” Bella stares at her. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t. I thought that it might!”

“Miss Hooper! Gladys! You seem to know about things.
Lawrence Morton is only here for what is owed.”

“Lawrence Morton is related to the Keys?”

“Caroline Keys is his mother. Squire is his father!”
Bella bursts into tears. “He says he’s not coming back to St. Pancras. To where we live. He says they are going to
kill him.”

. . .

Emily reading the letter that McBride has just presented
to her at her bedroom door, hands the letter to Annabell.

“Mr. Morton wants to meet you?” Annabell is stunned.

“I do not think we should go, Heart?”

“If that is your wish?”

“We will not go?”

“Mr. Morton states he does not believe he has long to
live in this body. For the child’s sake should we not speak
with him one last time? How will I explain our refusal to
the child inside me? Will he not ask of his Earthly father?”

Annabell cannot be more astounded. “Heart, how do
you know this is not a further entrapment?”

“I do not. But I do not believe they will harm the child.
If they harm me, they will harm the child. You can bring
a gun as he suggests, Annie. That will be your protection.
Do you have a gun?”

“We could take Uncle’s Mauser he uses for hunting. He
keeps it in his study.” Annabell at the back of her thoughts
has great foreboding. But she knows Heart’s determination.
She knows from the revealing yesterday this is not a casual
circumstance.

Nothing here is an act of chance. Heart
cannot go to the meeting alone. All that took place last
night, each entwined in the other! She has to go.

. . .

It is a little after the hour of noon. In the drawing
room, Ronald back from his walk is engaging Constance
with a little repartee. Unfortunately Constance is winning.
“Gladys has to give Shapanzi his daily Swedish lesson.”

“The sleeve hound needs to be educated in more than
one European language?”

“I’m afraid so, dear. I have to say his bark is beginning
to sound quite strange.”

“Gladys is learning Swedish herself in the process, that
on top of her raising her French and Italian for our trip.
I have told her it is unlikely she will need Swedish. Her
comment was, ‘Who knows where we will be after the trip
to the Alps.’ We will stop in Paris, will we not, Knobs?”

“We can travel up to your place, we have reservations
for the ship in a month. When we feel like it take the boat
train across, see Paris. Maybe come back afterwards when
everything is up and working properly. If it ever will be.”

George knocks, pokes his head around the door, seats
himself.

“Ah! George! We were just talking about you!”

“I hope you were kind?”

“We will be taking off for the summer next week. Will
you be staying here?”

“Yes! I don’t think I will return to India. Not now at
least.”

“Good! That takes some weight off my mind. When we
return, I believe we will be living in London. The court is
aware I will be absent the whole summer but I have decided
to resign. We will be back here to see you sometimes, if you
don’t mind?”

“It is because of Meg I intend to stay,” says George.

“Yes! Well, I have been managing the property all these
years. Time for you to step up.”

George smiles. “You don’t mind then if I marry?”

“Is that your intent?”

“Perhaps early October, when you return from the Alps.
If you will come?”

“I will.”

“We will sort out the dates late summer. That seems
to be best. Meg will be the one to make the decision when
of course.”

“Yes! I will keep you informed of our itinerary. Hotels
we will be staying at for you to send post.” Ronald smiles, “I can telephone, I forget that.”

Constance gets up. A sepia taken of Ronald and George’s
father so many years ago seems to stare at her.
At that moment, Miss Hooper bursts through the door.

“Oh! Your ladyship, Magistrate Bexfield. Please forgive
me, but I must speak of what I know. He has said they are
going to kill him!”

“Going to kill him?”

“I promised Miss Stanton to keep silent if there is no
reason, but there is a reason. I am sure there is a reason, a
reason why Shapanzi and I...”

“Miss Stanton. Who is Miss Stanton?”

“Miss Ackrim, sir. Bella Ackrim. Only her real name is Miss Stanton the wife of
Mr. Morton. Mr. Morton is the son of Caroline Keys. He
says they are going to kill him.”

“Who did, Mr. Morton?”

“That is what his wife told me. She was sobbing, sir.
He said he is not returning to their home in London. I think
he has to flee or they will kill him.”

“Who will kill him?”

“I don’t know, Magistrate Bexfield. All I know is that
I just heard that Miss Annabell and Miss Emily have gone
to the moors.”

George steps in at this point. “You say Mr. Morton is
the son of Caroline Keys?”

Constance has gone quite pale. “Yes!” She takes hold
of Ronald’s hand. “Will it never be resolved? Caroline had
a child, George. She begged me to tell you only when you
returned. But there has been no time. I did not know Mr.
Morton was her son.”

“He believes he is your son, Magistrate Bexfield.” Miss
Hooper says.

“My son.”

“Yes sir. Miss Keys was taken in by a family shortly
after birth. She fell ill and during that time murmured
certain words that a maid heard. That maid has just spoken
of it. Bexfield, was one of the words, and Popum, I believe.”

“Oh, my God. I have to go to see my son,” George
rears up out of the chair. “He will be at the Coulter’s with
Edward.” With that the door closes. George has gone.

“What is this about Miss Annabell and Miss Adams
going to the moors?”

That moment Arthur looks inside, noting the worried
expressions, he asks, “Is something wrong? George was on
the stairs. Rushing by he said he has a son.”

“There might be something wrong, Arthur. Stay here
and listen. Miss Hooper, you are concerned about Miss
Annabell and Miss Adams going to the moors.”

“I was just in the kitchen getting food for Shapanzi,
sir. The butler mentioned to the cook that Miss Samson
and Miss Adams have taken to riding out to the moors. The
butler said they appeared concerned. He wondered if it had
anything to do with yesterday.”

“It is unusual,” says Constance. “The appointment at the church this afternoon. The rehearsal! Why the moors?”

“Yes, at five at the church. Continue Miss Hooper.”

“Mr. McBride had seen the two young ladies on his way
to the stables, sir. Miss Annabell on her horse. Miss Adams
on the pony. Miss Samson had your rifle with her.”

“Holding my Mauser!”

“I don’t know, sir. He just said rifle. He spoke to the
stableman who had overheard them mention the ruins out
on the moors. I had to come and tell you. Especially after
Miss Stanton saying they were going to kill Mr. Morton.”

The Squire has already rang the bell for the butler.
McBride knocks, enters.

“Miss Hooper has told us you have seen Miss Annabell
with my Mauser?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has there been anything unusual this morning? To do with Miss Annabell or Miss Adams?”

“Nothing that I know of sir. Oh! Yes! I did take a letter
to Miss Adams. It came from the estate, sir.”

Miss Hooper has this awful almost mesmerized stare as
she stands by the drawing room door. “Lady Middleton, I
think more there is to this than even I have spoken of.”

“My God,” says the Squire. “It must be this business
with Emily. Arthur, if you will accompany me, let us see
if we can catch the girls. Bring your pistol, old fellow. I
know you carry it in your luggage. Stay here, Constance.
Miss Hooper, take care of Lady Middleton. This is for the
two of us to go.”

. . .

Lawrence gets on his horse. Riding from the estate to
the ruins, images flow around him. His aunt when he was
a small child, her arms around him trying to protect him
from a danger her mind could not accept. Bella, her hands
grasping him by the collar, holding him, desperately not
wanting to let him go. The old American Shaman comes
into his vision: “I see your death. I see your ghost.”

He knows they are going to kill him but long has been
the time when he cared for his life. Lawrence’s thoughts
return to the last time he was at Hartlepool. Contracts,
provided by the great empires of commerce of the families
had swelled the opulence of the mansion.

In that gathering where he was to bring forth the High
Being, everything had been catered specific to each taste.
Angulse Sherod knew with whom he dealt.

Those invited had discrimination not of the ordinary. Even of eating, his uncle’s import business could bring all
they desired. Lawrence himself marvelled at the richness,
how the world served the families: blood crocodile soup,
green lip Aotearoa mussels, Japan Sea Urchin.

It went on and on. Pine-nut pastries shaped like braids.
Birch syrup. Cozonac bread cooked by magic ritual. Magic
was the essence. Magic for them was always real.

From every corner ships brought fineries: Chinese red
Reishi mushroom, Sumatra pear, rainforest Strangler fig
topped with liquorice, anethole and wild plum. Catering
to their stomach is how Angulse insinuated himself to their
world.

They would relax after the engorgement. Fermented
White Oak, Ox-Tongue tobacco. For those of the inner
circle, a special ambrosia boasting of the taste of burnt
children.

And so those who came, endeared of the coven, each in
their own way were prepared.

Then it was time.

The servants would remove themselves, dismissed not
merely from the plush mansion rooms but the buildings.
Members of the coven seeing that all workers were removed
from the high-walled Hartlepool estate.

Only the coven and the exceptional guests.

A framed picture is turned, a new image brought from
behind: Setekh, Egyptian god of drought and tempest.

Then another reveals the Norse god Loki, entrails of one
of his sons binding him. A third reveals Angra Mainyu,
magnetizing humankind into its world of darkness.

All around the spacious hall images of the dark force
legions: Inverted crosses, skulls staring  jewels blazing fire
as replacement for eyes.

A heliogravure of Satan sowing seeds. Satan throwing
his women to all who might wish to partake and enjoy the
lust.

A half burnt church engulfed in flames.

Partitions of the cryptic ceremonial hall are folded back,
a flat marble stone revealed, the altar for that which will
take place, the coming sacrifice.

Behind the altar three white nephrite steps, a chair, four
gold legs of cloven hooves. High at the back of the chair a
golden face of an owl carved.

Behind upon the wall, His Satanic Majesty, Satanus,
rearing gleeful in goat form.

Yet, even that is not the most awesome sight, for high
above a huge gold dragon flies.

The coven priest signals for the clothing of Lawrence to
be cut. Then all begin to remove their clothes.

Naked bearers bring a palanquin open at the top and
sides to where Lawrence stands. Placing himself upon its
cushions the bearers bind his hands and feet to each pole.

The palanquin lifted upon the flat marble altar, lying
naked, his member fully erect, stirred by two witches, the
young goddess raises herself over him. Nubile, naked, her
blood-teats ready in their fullness, Lawrence suckles at the
lactating breasts.

A carnal shudder as her body moves back and forth, his
member twisting to her whim.

At a certain moment he roars.

In that instant, horns from another ether form, horns
upon his head.

He roars with the bestiality.

Roars with uncaring.

Roars as the goddess withdraws,

As his member once again is exposed.

Roars as his seed spurts upwards.

Roars as it shoots high, high above him to where the
dragon flies.

They watch those who surround him, and now they also
begin their roar.

Lawrence has arrived at the ruins. Miss Adams, Miss
Samson wait.

“Mr. Morton!” Annabell holds the rifle firmly in her
hand. It is pointed at him.

“I will not let them have control of him.” On his horse, Lawrence leans backwards. “It may not seem that I am
much in their presence, but they have their weakness. They have exposed themselves to me. I will use it against them. I will protect my son, Miss Adams. They will not persuade
him.”

“What do you wish from me?”

“Do not counter me.”
The last words are interrupted by two horses racing
along the tradesman’s path.

Lawrence startled turns, jumps from his horse. In that
moment of distraction another takes possession of his body,
another who runs to Annabell, grabs her rifle.

Three things take place as this stage will have it:

The Squire, having Lawrence point the rifle at him,
reaches to the back of his saddle to his walking stick.

Its pointed iron spike now hurtles towards Lawrence.

In the same instant, Arthur, seeing the rifle pointed at
Ronald, raises the pistol he holds, fires.

But not explained by ordinary nature, Arthur’s horse
shies before the release of the bullet. The pistol pointed
upwards, the ball goes over Lawrence’s head.

As the iron point of the walking stick hurtles towards
Lawrence, the rifle aims directly at the Squire, at his heart.
Controlled by the demon Ecnerwal inside Lawrence’s body,
the rifle fires.

The moment then stops.

Two men lay upon the ground.

Stick and rifle both have achieved their intent.

The Squire, heart seeping blood, has fallen from his
horse.

Lawrence Morton’s skull cracked open at the centre by
the iron point of the walking stick.

For Annabell there is no meaning. All is to run to her
uncle, to kneel, to utter the wail.

The wail of those who in their first grieving moment
begin to grasp that which for the rest of their Earthly life
will be unrecoverable loss.

Lawrence, his human light dissipating, forms his ghost.

He is stunned to recognise he is standing. He stands,
whilst he as he was lies crumpled, a corpse of oozing blood,
crushed, defaced bone at his feet.

Staring at his body it is obvious he has separated. Yet
he wears the same clothing the body on the ground wears.

The thought comes of waters he has visited. He‘s lain there and rested. Lawrence finds himself by those
waters.

Shock overcomes him and he falls into numbness.

Some hours or some days, he has no idea, he wakes to find himself lying near the waters. He looks at himself. He still has clothing.

There’s no horse. He did not bring himself here. He is
dead.

Upon the bronze throne he sits, the winged creature
flying above.

The killing is to be done.

He watches a coven member set a blanket upon the flat
sacrificial marble. He watches the priest being given the
infant by its naked mother, the goddess whom Lawrence
has just been inside. The priest places the infant upon the
blanket.

In some part of himself, he can feel the awareness of this
child, rocking itself gently side by side upon the blanket.

“To the glory of ‘The Other,”’ the cry is made.

“To the glory of ‘The Other,’ voices resound.
Then as the baby lays prone, held by the coven priest,
it only takes seconds.

A slight sound, though hardly a sound, for the priest
has his hand upon the infants mouth. Lawrence watches as
the blood pours forth from the child’s heart.

The instrument of death is laid next to the child. Those
around step to touch the blood with their fingers, to place
the blood into their mouths.

When all have finished, the priest, taking the dagger
with both hands, holds it up, holds it until a brilliance, a
seraphic radiance shines forth from the sacrificial tool.